


path

by kamsangi



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Angst, Bottom Bang Chan, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Hwang Hyunjin & Seo Changbin are Best Friends, Implied comphet, Implied/referenced hookups between Chan/others, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, One derogatory use of the f-slur, Questioning, Religious Conflict, Self-Acceptance, Self-Discovery, Sexual Experimentation, Slurs, Top Seo Changbin, Vague descriptions of Protestant Christianity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:48:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28362681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamsangi/pseuds/kamsangi
Summary: Sometimes, the weather in Seoul gets so hot that the sidewalk starts to sizzle. When he’d been a little kid, Changbin had touched his bare, open palms to the ground out of curiosity and screamed when they blistered, so loudly that even strangers had come running.Sin results in death. Eternal damnation. A million, scorching sidewalks.(Or: Changbin's new flatmate is gay. And Changbin isn't. Hecan'tbe.)
Relationships: Bang Chan/Seo Changbin, Hwang Hyunjin & Seo Changbin
Comments: 64
Kudos: 359
Collections: SKZ Secret Santa 2020





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**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhereverMyWay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhereverMyWay/gifts).



> written for the 2020 round of [skz secret santa](https://twitter.com/stayfanevents)!
> 
> to my recipient: when i saw that your favourite tropes/AUs were 'friends-to-lovers, roommate/university!AUs, angst, and lovers that shouldn't be together but can't help it,' i decided to just... write it all, more or less. really hope you like this (also uhhh especially since i saw that you just dropped something somewhat similar like, literally today. i might be sweating incredibly nervously right now), and have a wonderful end-of-year holiday! ❆
> 
> and my biggest thanks to [lina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/betheproof/pseuds/betheproof) for suffering all the way till the deadline with me, reading this through and being there the entire way. couldn't have done it without you.

_In a few sentences, what is the gospel?_

Blood-slick palms, feet slipping on splintered pine, flesh torn by a bind of thorns. Life, departed from, slowly and painfully. The release of fear. The sting of grace. Death, lived through and defeated, victoriously. Prophesied, foretold, seen and said. These impossible things that happen impossibly. The work of the divine living through a man who suffered, violently and terribly, all for this question to be asked. To be known.

(He knows all of these things, but still doesn’t understand. Not enough.)

_When did you get saved?_

Hands clasped together in child’s prayer. The blinding light of a room with too many voices. Music, thrumming and stirring the beat of his heart to the rhythm of something going beyond himself.

There’s no answer to this question.

(He doesn’t quite remember.)

_What were you saved from?_

Eyes squeezed shut, knees aching, lip trembling.

(No.)

He lets his hands open, and the blood of Christ spills over him, sears his skin.

(He doesn’t want to say it. Don’t make him say it. He still doesn’t understand.

What’s the answer?)

“Let no stone be left unturned, no corner of our lives unreached.” His mouth feels dry and clammy, tongue shackled to the words of the pages he knows he has to commit to memory. “Lord, open our eyes further and further to the greatness and sufficiency of the gospel. We thank you for your Spirit—and for allowing us to come together tonight to study Your Word. In Jesus’ name we pray, Amen.”

“Amen,” the small group murmurs, an uneven chorus.

Changbin opens his eyes, and lets his hands fall.

_you sure u didnt need any help moving in?_

_like u wouldve even lifted a finger to carry anything_

_lmaooo_  
_kk have fun unpacking ur ten suitcases_  
_u still need a ride to cell group later or what_

_its ok i got my sis to pick me up_  
_see u there_

_yea c u_

Pocketing his phone, he glances around, wondering if he should knock, or ring the doorbell, or something. His new flatmate had said to just come right up around eleven and just walk right in, the door would be open—it’s just past eleven now, and Changbin’s still standing outside in the hallway with two bags and three cardboard boxes full of shit he hadn’t wanted to make a second trip back home for. Not quite ten suitcases, but Hyunjin’s always been prone to over exaggeration, anyway.

Changbin peers down the corridor again. No footsteps, no voices. Alright.

He moves to knock, and that’s when the door’s abruptly wrenched open with a, “Hello! You’re early!”

It’s the first time Changbin’s seen his flatmate-to-be. Something about the way he smiles, big and bright and dimpled, catches him off-guard for a single, sudden moment.

“I’m on time,” Changbin says, recovering quickly. “You’re the one from the emails?”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s me.” He holds out a hand, and Changbin shakes it. The colourful beads of the bracelet on his wrist clack together. “Chris Bang—you can call me Chan, if it’s easier. Oh, lemme help you with your stuff—”

“Thanks, sorry, let me just get that—”

“You’re good, don’t worry—it’s alright, yeah, I can get ‘em—”

With Chan’s help, the boxes are brought in and dumped in the empty room closest to the front door. It’s a small room, but Changbin had expected it. It’s much nicer than the other places he’d seen, considering all things. He’s never really lived away from family before, so everything feels brand new to him. The unfamiliar bed, the empty closet, the desk that he can tell is secondhand but is clean and uncluttered.

“Thanks,” Changbin says, dropping his backpack onto the bed. “The other guy not here yet?”

Chan lets out a little laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Um, yeah, about that,” he says. “He backed out last minute. It’s just gonna be the two of us here.”

Changbin blinks. “Shit,” he says, “wait, but, the rent—”

“Actually, I was gonna bring that up, but I wanted to wait till you were settled in. But, since we’re talking about it now…” Chan bites his lip. “I’m willing to cover the cost of the third room. I can afford it—not that I’m flexing or anything, seriously, it’s just that my family’s not super worried about money right now, and I have a pretty decent part-time gig going. I was just wondering if you’d be alright with not having a third flatmate like we’d originally discussed… and if you’d be alright if I turned the third room into a studio.”

A studio?

Changbin’s eyebrows shoot up. “A studio,” he echoes, “for what?”

“For music,” Chan says, and a little smile peeks through his expression. “I’m studying at the conservatory at Yonsei.”

He doesn’t remember seeing any instruments in the living room as he came in. Just regular furniture—shelves filled with books and figurines, framed photos he hasn’t quite gotten a proper glimpse of, a couch with a rainbow-patterned blanket over it. “Piano? Guitar?”

“I play both, yeah. But I’m in the composition department.”

A pause hangs between them as Changbin takes the words in.

Then, Changbin says, “Split the rent with me.”

Chan’s head tilts, like he’s just heard wrongly. “Sorry?”

“Split the rent with me,” Changbin repeats. “And let me use it too.”

Chan’s expression brightens with delight. “You do music too?”

“Um,” Changbin coughs, suddenly feeling a bit embarrassed. “I—I want to.” He doesn’t look at the box nearest to his feet, the one that’s packed to the brim with textbooks that make him feel dizzy just to look at. “But, my parents—they wanted me to study engineering.”

“Ah,” Chan says softly. Understanding, despite only having met Changbin less than ten minutes ago. “Yeah, I get that.”

“Yeah.” Changbin clears his throat. “So, like, we could share the thing if you don’t mind.”

“Dude,” Chan says, smiling again. The dimples are back out in full force. “I love working with people. ‘Course I don’t mind. Do you play anything? My keyboard’s free real estate, man. Feel free to use it whenever.”

“Oh,” Changbin says. That’s ridiculously generous of him. “Shit. Are you always this nice?”

Chan goes pink across the face. “Ah,” he says, covering his mouth with one hand, “sort of. Runs in the family, I guess. We’re just really casual people back home.” There’s something about the way he says that last bit, but he doesn’t have to guess, because Chan adds, “I’m from Australia.”

He even does the little hand gesture for emphasis, three fingers curled into his palm, pinky and thumb stuck out as he shakes his hand.

“Cool,” Changbin says, genuinely meaning it. It explains a lot, he guesses. “You speak Korean really well. And I’m, uh, just from around here. Yongin. Nowhere special, really.”

Chan laughs. “I figured,” he says. “And yeah, thanks. Grew up speaking it with my folks. They weren’t super happy when they found out I wanted to come here to study, but I did it anyway.”

“Too far from home?”

“That,” Chan says, motioning for Changbin to follow him out of the room, and Changbin does. “And I’m the oldest sibling. You know how parents get.”

Changbin does. When his sister had mentioned wanting to move in with her best friends to be closer to school, their parents had thrown a fit. He figures he’s gotten off comparatively easy. _Thanks for going first,_ he thinks, sending a thought off to his sister.

“So, yeah. Your room, my room. That one’s the third room—the studio.” Chan shoots him a grin. “Living room, kitchen’s this little nook over there. The trash bins and washing machine are in the back, behind the door.” He runs Changbin through where everything is, from plates to soap to some random cereal that he says Changbin can just have if he ever gets hungry at three in the morning. It’s more amusing than any house-tour has the right to be—mostly because of the way Chan refers to things, forgetting the right word for them half the time and just using English, and the way he’s definitely trying not to mess up in front of Changbin.

“And that’s the flat. Oh, and your copy of the key’s on the table there.”

“Thanks,” Changbin says, nodding. “It’s pretty cosy. Definitely feels a bit bigger since it’s just two of us.”

“You can definitely fit like, eight people in here though.” Chan’s smile suddenly drops, brows knitting together nervously. “Hey, um. Are you alright if I ever bring dudes over? When you’re not here, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Changbin says, shrugging, “bring your friends over whenever.”

“I don’t mean friends.” Chan bites his lip. “I mean, like, dates? But it doesn’t really happen that often, to be honest.”

Changbin’s train of thought rolls to a complete halt. _Dudes,_ his mind helpfully repeats, and the little pieces start to fall together. The rainbow blanket. The bracelet on his wrist with English letters across the beads spelling P-R-I-D-E. He’s talking about bringing other guys over. Guys that he—

“Oh,” he says, “you’re gay?”

Chan looks a bit uneasy. His gaze falls on the cross hanging around Changbin’s neck. “Yeah. I am. Are you… not okay with that?”

“No, no, I mean.” Changbin swallows. “It’s fine. You do you. I just—I’m a Christian.”

He says that like it explains everything. It does, but probably only to him.

Changbin’s just never met anyone who’s openly admitted it like that before.

“Yeah,” Chan says, “I can see.” He visibly relaxes, the tension running out of his shoulders, since Changbin’s said it’s fine. It’s fine, it is. He’s fine with it. He has no reason to not be fine with living with a gay dude. It’s perfectly alright. “Right, so. I’ll let you unpack?”

“Sure, yeah. Thanks,” Changbin offers, “for showing me around and everything. I’m pretty sure we’re gonna get along.”

Chan smiles as he disappears back into his own room. “For sure,” he says, shutting the door behind him.

His things are still where he’d left them. Changbin tears the packing tape off the boxes, starts pulling clothes out from his suitcase to store in the suit of drawers next to the bed, and unzips his backpack to get his laptop out.

The laptop goes on the desk, and then Changbin’s looking down at the bible nestled between his water bottle and laptop charger.

Gently, carefully, he sets it on his desk next to his laptop, and then goes back for the charger.

He doesn’t think about it. Not now.

“Sin results in death.” Their cell leader’s tone is firm, leaving no room for argument. “The blood of those sacrifices made in the olden times reminds us of the severity of sin, doesn’t it? But consider this—the fact that blood flowed from those sacrifices rather than from sinners themselves. God loves His children, God wants them all to come to repentance. We deserve His wrath, but He refuses to give us what we deserve.”

Does He? Well. Changbin still doesn’t quite know about that.

He thumbs at the corner of his notebook, pen tucked into the spiral binding, unused and forgotten for the last twenty minutes.

Violence, wrath, righteous anger. Not a fist to the stomach or raised voices, but true, damning, eternal punishment for doing something wrong, so wrong, in the eyes of God that blood has to flow (but what’s so wrong about—)

“Right,” their cell leader says. Changbin blinks, glancing down at his watch. The time’s run down. They’re ending now. He hadn’t even noticed everyone settling into that quiet meditative mood that always precedes the end of a bible study session, too lost in his head. Thinking about thoughts that shouldn’t be thought. “Let’s close in prayer. Hyunjin?”

Beside him, Hyunjin clears his throat, and folds his hands together delicately. Changbin watches his hair fall over his face as he tilts his head down, eyes shut. It’s getting pretty long. He wonders if Hyunjin will cut it like the others in church keep telling him to. Make him look a little less like a g—

Changbin squeezes his eyes closed too. Lets Hyunjin’s voice flow over him, practiced and easy. When he says, “Amen,” with the rest of the group, he doesn’t remember a single thing Hyunjin had prayed for.

“See you all on Sunday,” someone says, and the greeting echoes across the room.

Changbin waves, pats the shoulder of the friend on his other side, and then nudges Hyunjin in the arm. “Hey,” he says, shooting for nonchalance. “So. When were you gonna mention that you know him? Bang Chan?”

It’d been an accident, really, finding out. Changbin had gotten curious, searched up Chan’s name on Instagram and discovered that they had a couple of mutual friends. Hyunjin being one of them.

Hyunjin shrugs, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “We have some mutual friends,” he says, “you know Felix? The one from my class? They’re from the same hometown, apparently. Knew each other since they were kids. And there’s Minho—friend of mine from dance, don’t think you know him—they know each other from campus, or whatever. Something like that.”

“Huh,” Changbin says. “Would’ve been nice to have had a heads-up.”

Hyunjin makes a disdainful noise. “For what? It’s Chan,” he says, matter-of-fact, “he’s the most disarming person alive.”

He’s right. It’s only been two weeks and Chan’s been more friendly than Changbin had expected. Not that they’re the best of friends already, or anything, but Chan’s been greeting him good morning each time Changbin stumbles out of his room, rubbing at his eyes drowsily. He starts conversations on the fly and is quick to answer questions whenever Changbin has any, whether it’s about campus life or music or anything.

Is this what living with someone else is like?

(Maybe it’s just what living with Chan is like.)

They wave goodbye to their other cell group friends as they head off, some of them heading off to dinner together. Changbin and Hyunjin would usually join them, but it’s been a while since the two of them have gotten to catch up just like this.

“So,” Changbin starts as they’re walking down the block, “you know, then? That he’s…”

“Who, Chan?” Hyunjin shoots him a look he can’t quite decipher. “That he’s gay? Yeah. Of course I know.”

“Right, yeah, he’s pretty open about it, isn’t he.” Changbin’s gaze follows a gaggle of teenagers going into a convenience store as they wait on the curb for the lights to change. “And you’re okay with it?”

“Why wouldn’t I be okay with it?”

The lights change. They cross the street.

“I mean,” Changbin says, “he’s gay.”

“And,” Hyunjin says slowly, “why wouldn’t I be okay with it, Changbin?”

Sometimes, the weather in Seoul gets so hot that the sidewalk starts to sizzle. When he’d been a little kid, Changbin had touched his bare, open palms to the ground out of curiosity and screamed when they blistered, so loudly that even strangers had come running.

Sin results in death. Eternal damnation. A million, scorching sidewalks.

“Never mind,” Changbin says, shaking his head. Hyunjin should understand. He should. They learnt all the same things in Sunday school. “Whatever. Ignore it.”

His hands rub against his jeans roughly, absently. Burning.

Adjusting to campus life isn’t difficult.

Changbin’s always been the outgoing kind. He makes friends with the majority of his classmates in no time at all. Signs up for a couple of clubs, just to give himself something to do. The lecturers are decent and the tutors are approachable. The content’s difficult, but doable. It’s classes, assignments, church, classes, and the occasional break in monotony to hang with friends.

And, weaved into all of it, interspersed between all of those moments, is Chan.

Hyunjin had been right. Chan’s easy to get along with. He’s bright and breezy and seems to know everyone (and everyone knows him). Soon, Changbin’s forgetting his initial reaction (apprehension?) upon meeting him. Soon, he’s just another dude.

“Hey,” Chan says one morning, catching Changbin as he pads out of his room, stretching. “Do you work out?”

Changbin blinks. “Do I—huh?”

Chan’s face colours in. “I mean,” he starts, “not, uh, implying anything that is, I just wanted to ask—if you do, do you wanna hit the gym with me today? I need someone to spot me.”

“Oh,” Changbin says, completely unable to process the thought, “yeah, I do, yeah—gimme a moment. I’ll grab my shit.”

Chan gives him a thumbs up, still a bit pink-cheeked.

Changbin grabs his gym bag, starts tossing clothes in, and tries very hard to not think about Chan noticing him. Noticing that he works out. Was it the bag? The clothes? His arms?

A shiver stops him in his motions. _Don’t,_ he thinks. _He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t look at you like that. You don’t want him to._

He shakes the thought off, and slings his bag over his shoulder, heading out the door to meet Chan.

At the gym, Changbin settles into his regular workout while Chan does the same across from him. He’s just about to go select some weights when he glances over to see what Chan’s doing—and he’s stretching his arms over his head easily, bending side to side. His shirt rides up each time, showing off toned muscle. Changbin’s gaze follows the cut of his hips into the hem of his sweatpants.

Chan catches his eyes, and Changbin whips back around, cheeks burning with shame. _Stop it,_ he reprimands himself, _that’s fucking weird. Don’t fucking stare at dudes in the gym. You know better._

 _But,_ another part of him says, _you’re just appreciating the way he looks. That’s not gay. It’s fine. Guys look at each other all the time._

Changbin takes a breath, and pushes it out of his mind the way he always does.

It doesn’t take long for it to become routine, whether it’s working out together or tagging along during morning runs. They quickly fall into a comfortable rhythm that Changbin’s glad for. There’s nothing better to anchor his days around than the steady familiarity of steel under his grip or pavement under his soles. Having someone to keep him company is even better.

And then one night, Chan asks, as they’re putting soundproofing up on the walls of the studio, “You going for that party on Friday?”

“You made it, dude!”

Changbin reaches out to clasp Hyunjin’s hand and drag him in for a shoulder pat. “Hey. I’m more surprised you made it, honestly.”

Hyunjin shoots him a grin. “Alcohol’s in the kitchen,” he says, “I promise I won’t tell your parents.”

“You’re awful,” Changbin responds. He needs a beer already. “Anyone else you know here yet?”

“I know Chan’s around here somewhere. I thought the two of you would’ve come together.”

“He was on campus, I was home.” Changbin cranes his neck to look over the roomful of people. He has no idea who the host of this party is, and he doesn’t think he’s going to find out anytime soon. The house is huge, located in a swanky part of the city that Changbin’s only been to a couple of times. “Hey, that’s Chan’s friend—Jisung, right?”

“Yeah. You’ve met?”

“A few times.” Chan had introduced him one evening as someone from one of his classes. Jisung’s loud and excitable and bounces off the walls, but his mile-a-minute mouth only lends to the way he spits out lyrics. “He’s cool.”

Hyunjin snorts. “’Cool’ isn’t the word I’d use to describe Jisung with, but sure.”

They watch as Jisung sidles up to a girl from a mutual class, and tries to ask her for something. A dance, her number, homework help. Either way, they watch him get shot down almost instantaneously, and Hyunjin sighs into his bottle.

“Happen a lot?” Changbin asks.

“More like all the time.”

“Hey,” Jisung says, appearing beside them, “I heard that.”

“Good,” Hyunjin says, and Jisung starts to splutter. “You wanna try your luck next?”

Changbin blinks. “What—me?”

“Yeah, dude, weren’t you just complaining the other day about not meeting any girls in your class? Plenty of girls here.”

“Yeah,” Changbin says, but the moment he thinks about approaching a girl and trying to make conversation, he’s suddenly exhausted by the idea. Maybe not right now. Maybe he just needs to get used to things a bit more, first. “Maybe later.”

“Suit yourself. Hey,” Hyunjin says, changing the topic, “so, I heard you two started like, making music together?”

“Three of us, actually,” Jisung says, perking up. “Chan, too—he’s got a lot of really fuckin’ good tracks that just need words over them, and we’ve only really met up like, twice, but I think it’s going really fuckin’ well—”

The conversation carries on from there, Changbin getting absorbed in retelling some of their ideas to Hyunjin, and then Jisung gets on the topic of group names, and before he knows it, he’s on his third beer and they’ve pulled in complete strangers to talk about music with them.

It’s good, it’s really good. Changbin thrives off social situations, loves hearing people laugh, loves getting to know people and what they’re into. But—at some point, his mind starts to drift a little, unconsciously searching something out around the room until he realises, oh.

He still hasn’t seen Chan anywhere tonight.

Maybe he’s caught up chatting with another group of friends. Maybe he’s gone home already. Maybe he hadn’t even showed up.

But it’s none of Changbin’s business anyway.

Three beers becomes four and a glass of water, and half an hour later, Changbin’s excusing himself to go to the toilet.

He climbs the stairs, passing several tipsy couples and a group of kids who definitely look too young to be here, and accidentally walks into a storeroom before managing to locate the right door.

In the bathroom, he takes a leak, splashes his face with water, and checks his phone for the time. It’s still early in the night. Maybe he’ll do what Hyunjin suggested after all. Talk to a girl, get her number. See if that goes anywhere.

(It has to. It should. No ifs.)

As he leaves and makes to shut the door, he hears a soft laugh around the corner.

He glances to see who it is just out of instinct—and, wait. That’s Chan right there, stepping back against a wall with one hand curled into the shirt of some dude Changbin’s only seen in photos on Hyunjin’s Instagram account. He’s smiling, tugging the guy closer and maneuvering them both around until Chan’s the one bracketing him with his arms, leaning in close.

The guy says something that Changbin doesn’t catch, and Chan kisses him.

Something in Changbin twists up, ugly and tight.

He can’t look away to save his life.

Chan’s got the guy backed up against the wall. There’s barely any space left between their bodies as they make out and grind against each other. He can see their tongues touch, sliding together between their wet mouths, can hear the slick sound of it. The sound that Chan makes, low and breathy, when the guy tugs at his lower lip with his teeth, lets go, and flicks the tip of his tongue over where he’d nipped. He’s never heard Chan sound like that before—not ever, not like this.

Not like this.

Chan’s hand slides up the guy’s shirt once before pushing down into his pants, until his wrist disappears past the hem, and the guy’s hips jerk up into Chan’s grip—

His heartbeat rings in his ears, drowning out every other sound.

Changbin finally spins on his heel and flees.

The key scrapes through the lock, nauseatingly loud. The latch swings open, and Changbin pushes through the door, stumbling in. His sneakers thump on the floor as he toes them off, making straight for the couch.

Changbin flops down onto it, tilts his head back, and stares up at the ceiling. It’s still playing behind his eyes. Seared into his memory. Hands and mouths and _Chan._

He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, rubs at them until his eyes tear.

Stop. Don’t think about it. It wasn’t anything you should think about.

Something in his gut rolls. He feels clammy.

Changbin moves to grab a glass of water from the kitchen. Watches it fill up from the filter, chugs it down. Fills up another, drinks that one, too. His palms are sweaty. He rubs them on his shirt, fills up another glass before he changes his mind and tosses the water into the sink.

Don’t think about it.

He doesn’t know how long he stays on the couch, mindlessly scrolling through his phone in an attempt to take his mind off things, but it’s past midnight when he hears footsteps outside. Changbin clicks his phone off immediately, glancing up.

The door opens, and Chan pauses when he sees Changbin on the couch. “Hey,” he says, “someone mentioned you left early.”

“Yeah, um.” Changbin shrugs. “Just wasn’t feeling it.”

“Ah.” Chan shuts the door, kicking his sneakers into the corner. “You feeling okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, just fine.”

“Right,” Chan says, approaching the sofa. “Is there something on my face?”

“What?”

“You keep looking at me,” Chan says, motioning to himself, “did I get something on my face, or?”

“No, no—I just—” Changbin shakes his head, and blurts out, “I saw you.” When Chan doesn’t prompt him further, he adds, “Upstairs. With that guy.”

“Oh,” Chan says. His voice is curious when he says, “Hope that didn’t bother you, or anything.”

“It didn’t.” Changbin’s stomach flips. “M’gonna go to bed.”

“Right,” Chan says, quiet, unreadable, “goodnight, Changbin.”

“Night. See you in the morning.”

And, for the second time that night, he makes his escape, this time burning less with embarrassment and more with what feels like a strange, roiling fever that’s abruptly swept through his nerves, leaving him feeling uneasy. Ill, almost.

He curls up in his bed, clutches at his sheets, and takes a deep breath. Inhale, exhale. Another, and another.

It doesn’t work. He still feels a bit sick. He wonders if it’s him. Wonders if just it’s him feeling unwell every time he thinks about Chan being with another man. Every time he thinks about Chan’s hands down another guy’s pants, Chan’s mouth around a random guy’s di—

(Stop. Don’t say it.)

Changbin clasps his hands together, eyes closed.

But he doesn’t pray.

They sidestep the memory of that night, letting the days pass them behind as the seasons start to change, studies ramp up, and Changbin’s initial unease begins to fade.

He feels ridiculous just remembering that night. Maybe it’d been the alcohol, he figures. Maybe it’d been the shock of having seen Chan, a friend, in a compromising position like that.

A friend. They’re friends now, aren’t they, him and Chan? They’re not just flatmates anymore. It’s been three months and they’re still going for runs, working out together, doing their work at the same table on quiet nights where there’s no sound besides the patter of rain and the barely audible sound of Chan humming along to his music across from him.

Sometimes Changbin thinks that maybe he doesn’t need to go out to dizzyingly packed parties where he’s never met sixty percent of the people in attendance, or meet up with friends just for the sake of meeting up with them, spending an entire day out and feeling exhausted by the end of it. He loves it, he does, he loves the way he feels recharged each time, loves meeting new people, but.

But, sometimes Changbin thinks maybe just being like this is enough.

Chan, headphones on, tapping away at his laptop, sheets of music spread out beside him. Chan, stretching and asking if he wants to order jjajangmyeon. Chan, saying they should ask Jisung to come over, to work on some songs together.

And each time, Changbin will gladly answer, “Of course,” his own work forgotten at the prospect of music.

It’s exhilarating. He’s never connected this well with anyone else before, not when it comes to composing or writing lyrics. The three of them bounce ideas back and forth for hours. Spend entire nights stretched out across the couch and the rug and a squashed beanbag, listening to YouTube playlists cobbled together under the guise of research. Even when it’s just the two of them, him and Chan, it’s just as good.

Chan, who sidles up next to him and shows him where to fit his fingers along the black and white of his keyboard. Their shoulders brushing together. Chan’s laugh is light in his ears, his smile obvious even when he speaks.

Changbin glances up at Chan, and their gazes meet. There’s something earnest in Chan’s eyes. Something that makes Changbin’s chest clench up, something that has nothing to do with anything other than the proximity of their faces, the hitch of Chan’s breath, the pause that hangs between them, tense and knowing.

His pulse thunders in his throat, in his wrists.

Changbin turns away.

They’re sitting at the dining table.

But Chan’s not sitting across from him—he’s sitting right beside him. There aren’t any books on the table, no laptops. Everything’s hazy, but Chan’s right there, Chan’s hand is on his knee, and Chan’s leaning in, eyes warm, saying his name. _Changbin,_ he says, _Changbin, Changbin, come here, Changbin._

His hand slides up Changbin’s thigh, and Changbin shuts his eyes—

—and opens them to find that he’s lying in his bed, and Chan’s straddling his hips, leaning over him. He feels hot all over. Chan’s the cool air on his skin, the water to his lips. Chan skates his palms down Changbin’s chest and rests them on his stomach and Changbin blinks—

—and Chan’s between his knees, saying his name again. _Changbin,_ he says, voice sounding distant, like he’s far away. _Changbin,_ he says, mouth brushing over the line of his dick, and he’s hard, he’s naked and he’s hard and Chan’s between his thighs, his lips on Changbin— _Changbin, Changbin, please, Changbin—_

He wakes up with a startled breath, clutching at the sheets.

Sunlight streams in through his half-open curtains. The sheets are rucked up around his waist. There’s a sticky wetness in the front of his boxers that he doesn’t want to acknowledge. He’s hard.

The dream is beginning to fade, but it’s unmistakable what that’d been.

Who that had been.

He staggers to the bathroom, washes up, and stands at the sink for a long, long time, willing his arousal to subside. He tries to think about everything and anything else. It almost works.

Then, from outside, he hears the sound of a door opening, and the cheerful hum of Chan’s voice. _Changbin,_ he hears in his mind, and he smacks his palm against the wall in frustration, willing those thoughts to go away too.

He feels sick with it, sick with the fear that the thoughts are only going to keep on coming. Sick with the idea that maybe he really is—that he might be—that they’re all going to know—

“Lord,” Changbin whispers, “please take the thoughts away, please, I don’t want them. I _don’t._ Please.” His mouth feels dry. “It’s not me. It’s not.”

His voice echoes off the tiles. There’s no answer.

One day, there’s nothing—and the next day, snow falls over the city like a blanket.

Winter arrives, and Changbin throws himself into schoolwork and church work in an attempt to distract himself from his own mind. Assignments and serving on Sundays and following up with church leaders and making plans with friends. It’s too much and not enough at the same time.

He still wants to know why.

His bible sits on his table, constant and ever-present. Both taunting and comforting him every time he walks into his room and sees it. Every time he starts to feel his thoughts slide where they shouldn’t.

It’s been years. Years and years. He thought they’d be gone by now. He thought he wouldn’t be tested like this anymore.

It lies open on his desk, the notebook he takes to cell sessions. They’re on the third week of their study now. _In that battle of grace-driven effort,_ reads his untidy handwriting, _we attack the roots of our sin rather than just the branches._

And, right below that, _if we don’t kill the root of sin, we will keep seeing the branches of sin._

(But what do you do when the seed’s been planted since the very beginning, when the roots are deeper than you know? When you can’t tell where the root begins and where you end?)

Changbin shuts the notebook and stuffs it into a drawer in favour of checking his phone for any more messages from his family groupchat. He didn’t expect to miss home this much, to be honest. He’s glad for the week-long break that they’re getting over Christmas and New Year’s. It’ll be good to spend some time away with them again, his parents and his older sister.

“Have fun,” Chan tells him, a few days before he’s slated to head off. “You guys vacationing somewhere nice?”

“Yeah,” Changbin says, beaming. “It’s near this ski lodge—we don’t go there to ski, but it’s cool as hell to look at, and the food’s always good.”

“Sounds nice,” Chan says, sounding a bit wistful. “Maybe I’ll splurge on Christmas dinner this year. Get something that isn’t ramen.”

“You’re not going anywhere?”

“I can’t,” Chan says, and the realisation hits Changbin like a freight train. “Break’s too short, and I don’t want my family to have to spend so much to come here instead.”

“Shit,” Changbin says feelingly, and Chan laughs. “You shouldn’t have to spend Christmas alone. That sucks.”

“It’s fine.” Chan’s voice is soft. “Used to it.”

Changbin glances back down at his phone, where his messages are open. The last one had been from his sister, reminding him to bring two jackets in case. Before that, his father, talking about how there wouldn’t be a lot of people there this year for some reason. Lots of pension space. “Hey,” Changbin says, not looking up, “do you wanna come spend Christmas with me?”

“In Gangwon-do?” Chan’s voice is taken aback. “Really?”

“Really,” Changbin says. He’s already typing away: _can bang chan (flatmate) come with us? he can’t go home to australia for the hols. don’t want him to be alone_. “My parents would be cool with it.”

“That’s—wow,” Chan says. He looks stunned when Changbin finally glances in his direction, eyebrows high up on his forehead. “I’d… I’d love to. If it’s alright with your family.”

_poor thing! of course he can come._

Changbin shoots him a grin. “Pack your bags,” he says, “we leave on Friday.”

And, of course, Chan’s the perfect guest. He’s polite, speaks to Changbin’s parents easily, gets along well with his older sister, and offers to help with everything. It’s probably good that none of them realise that Chan’s gay. Fends off a lot of difficult questions—all the ones that aren’t about how Changbin’s finding university, that is.

He still doesn’t know how to tell them that he cares more for music than he’s ever cared about anything in his life.

Honestly, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get to tell them.

They spend three days doing nothing but exploring parks, snow-covered hiking trails and eating their way to absolutely contentment. Changbin drags Chan out to see the ski lodge from miles away, and they talk into the night in their shared room until they fall asleep to the sound of lo-fi music from Changbin’s phone. It’s the best holiday Changbin’s had in a long time, and having Chan there to spend it with him doesn’t feel out of place at all.

On the last night, they’re outside on the deck grilling meat for dinner, when Chan scoots closer to him on the bench and says, “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” Changbin says, “seriously.”

Chan smiles, illuminated by the low glow of the embers under the grill and the lights within the pension. “People aren’t usually this nice to people they barely know.”

“I don’t barely know you,” Changbin points out. “We know each other. We’ve lived together for almost four months.”

He knows where Chan’s from, what he does, how old he is. He knows Chan’s got siblings, likes sports, and is a social drinker. But—he also knows the way Chan takes his tea in the morning. The kind of music Chan puts on at three a.m. when he thinks no one else can hear it. The way Chan’s head tilts when he’s thinking, the way Chan laughs differently around different people, the way Chan gazes up at the stars at night like there’s something to be found within them.

“Yeah,” Chan murmurs. His shoulder leans against Changbin’s. “Guess we have, huh?”

It’s snowing, but Changbin doesn’t feel anything other than the warmth exuded by Chan against his side, strong and steady. He’s built so solidly that Changbin thinks he could fit right up against him and feel small, even though they’re just about the same height.

“Guess so.” Changbin tips his head to look at him, and Chan does the same, almost catching Changbin’s cheek with the tip of his nose. But Changbin doesn’t pull back, his own eyes caught on the single fleck of snow resting in Chan’s lashes.

“This means a lot to me,” Chan says, voice barely a whisper. “Changbin.”

(Look away. Look away now.)

He can’t look away.

Then, the fire under the grill sparks up, and Changbin hurriedly rushes to rescue the burning meat and mushrooms, grabbing his tongs from beside him off the bench and cursing under his breath. Chan’s gotten up by the time he’s got it back under control, hands in his pockets as he stares out towards the distance. He looks a bit flushed.

Changbin doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what that had been.

(He doesn’t know if he wants to know.)

That night, Chan wishes him a quiet, “Goodnight,” as they both slip into their bunks for the last time. Changbin curls up on his side, listens for the sound of Chan’s phone clicking off, and then, the tiniest of snores.

Changbin doesn’t sleep for hours.

He knows Chan hooks up with guys once in a while. He’s known since the start, he’s known since the night of the party. He thought he’d be used to it by now, watching Chan tug his leather jacket on and head out with a wave, or overhear Chan on the phone mentioning what time it’s fine to come over. It doesn’t happen often, and Changbin knows it’s usually the same friend-with-benefits that Chan’s offhandedly mentioned having once or twice, but still.

He thought he’d be used to it, but he isn’t. There’s still that weird feeling in his chest whenever he sees it, or thinks about it. It’s compounded by the memory of the dream he’d had, the memory of the night he’d seen Chan, the memory of that night during Christmas break, when they’d sat so close that Changbin could almost lean over and k—

Frustration digs deep under his skin. He’s felt like this the entire week, off-kilter and tetchy and irritated. Working out hadn’t helped as much as he’d liked, and he’s been far too distracted to work on music.

(It’s all your fault. You didn’t look away.)

Changbin digs his nails into his knees, shaking his head.

He wanted to. He swears he wanted to.

The door opens, and Changbin lets his hands fall as Chan steps in, bending over to undo the laces on his boots. “Hey,” Chan calls, “did you eat already?”

“Not yet,” Changbin says, “are you planning to…” His words die in his throat when Chan straightens back up and turns to face him. His hair’s unkempt, like someone’s been running their fingers through it. His mouth’s redder than usual, a little swollen. There’s a mark high up on his neck, red and obvious. Two shirt buttons are undone. Changbin follows the trail of pale skin down his chest, and his gaze slides back up to meet Chan’s when he realises what he’s doing. “I, uh. You’re getting dinner?”

“Thinking about it,” Chan says, tugging his jacket off. He’s sleeveless, the muscle of his arms flexing when he folds the jacket and puts it over the chair he always sits in. “Want anything?”

Water. He wants water. Changbin’s abruptly and unfathomably thirsty for no good reason at all. The frustration is back, clawing up under his skin like it’s begging to be released.

“No,” Changbin finally says. “I’m good. I’ll eat later.”

“Okay.” Chan returns to his room, and Changbin follows suit to his own, but makes a beeline straight for the bathroom once he’s locked the door behind him.

The shower turns on. Maximum pressure, all the way.

Changbin steps under it and tilts his face up, letting the water run over him, eyes shut. He still feels too warm, still unreasonably wound up. Did Chan notice, standing there? Did Chan notice while he’d looked at him?

Chan. Chan in those clothes, Chan with those marks on him.

Changbin sucks in a breath. Water splashes around his feet. The dream flashes behind his eyes again. Chan straddling his hips, leaning in close. His lips curling around the vowels of his name. _Changbin,_ he’d said, voice warm. The same way he says Changbin’s name every single day. The same way he’d said Changbin’s name, face tucked up close to his, both of them sitting on the patio of a snow-covered pension.

Against his better judgment, he takes his cock in his hand and strokes, pushing every other thought out of his mind. He wonders who left that bruise on him tonight. If they used their mouth, their fingers. If Chan asked for it. Chan, lips bitten red, lips on someone else’s lips, lips on his. Chan’s mouth on him, Chan’s hands on him. Hands, warm and big and firm. Touching him, like this.

Changbin rests his forehead against the wall, speeding up the motion of his hand, eyes still closed as he pants, thinking about Chan between his legs. Thinks about Chan, over and over, until he’s biting back a groan and coming, shoulders tensed up.

The water runs over his bare back and sluices down his arms, his thighs.

It washes him clean, like nothing had happened. Washes away his sins.

He sinks to the cold floor, face in his hands.

He doesn’t mean to avoid Chan. It just happens.

They leave their rooms at different times in the morning. They come home at different times. Changbin starts studying in his own room more often rather than at their table. He turns down music nights with the excuse of studying, and instead texts Jisung to see if he wants to meet up to work on anything. He hangs out with Hyunjin, who’s starting to wonder if there’s something up with him, because for all that Changbin looks like and acts like in front of other people, he’s always been far too easy to read for his closest, oldest friend.

And he knows he shouldn’t avoid Chan. He knows it’ll only bring up more questions, but every time he thinks about being in the same room as Chan, his skin starts to prickle with something he still can’t acknowledge.

So Changbin just keeps doing it. Ducking out of hangouts, going out for dinner without letting him know he’s going, shutting himself in his room.

He doesn’t want to know what Chan must think of him.

(Fear.)

But Chan is just as persistent as he is, and doesn’t give up easy. He waits for Changbin one night, and corners him right before he can slip back into his room, arms crossed and mouth downturned unhappily.

“Okay,” Chan starts, the obvious hurt bleeding through his words, “tell me what I did wrong. Because it’s been two weeks and I’m struggling to figure this out.”

_You’re struggling to figure it out because it’s not you._

Changbin shrugs, not glancing up. “You haven’t done anything.”

“Changbin,” Chan says, exasperated. “I know you’re avoiding me.”

“I’m not.” There’s a tiny piece of Changbin that genuinely believes that Chan will drop it if he just tries hard enough. “I swear.”

It doesn’t work. Chan just looks more determined to find out the truth, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers before saying, “C’mon, dude. I keep asking if you want to work on anything and you just keep saying later.”

“Yeah, maybe I’m busy.” Liar. “Maybe I just don’t feel like working on anything right now.”

Chan’s voice is low and accusing. “You’ll work with Jisung, though.”

Surprise jolts through Changbin. He hadn’t thought—he didn’t realise Chan would’ve known. Of course he would’ve. Jisung’s been his friend longer than he’s been Changbin’s. Of course he would’ve said something.

“It’s not—it’s nothing.” Changbin exhales. “It’s not you.”

“Of course it’s me. If you’ll talk to anyone else and not me then it’s me, Changbin. Who the hell else would it be?”

“I said it’s not _you!_ It’s not your fucking problem.”

“Then why won’t you just talk to me?”

“We’re talking right now.”

“This isn’t _talking_ —are you serious right now?” Chan barks out a laugh, sounding disbelieving. “If I’d known you’d still have a problem with me even after saying you wouldn’t—”

“I don’t have a problem with you, the hell?”

“What else is it, huh? You tell me what.” His voice is tight, brimming with anger. “You tell me, right now, that it’s not about the fact that I sleep with men.”

“I said, it’s not you!” Changbin stands, his chair shoved back with a loud scrape as he steps towards Chan, all reason lost as his anger whips itself into a frenzy. “It’s not about who the fuck you sleep with because it’s about _me!”_

He doesn’t realise how close he’s gotten until Chan’s shoving at his shoulder, biting out, “Then just tell me what’s wrong!”

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Changbin says, shoving him right back before he even knows what he’s doing, _“fuck you.”_

Chan’s back hits the wall, but he’d grabbed Changbin’s arm a split second before Changbin pushed him, and they’ve stumbled right up into each other. His grip is tight around Changbin’s wrist, and Changbin’s hand is curled into Chan’s shirt. He doesn’t know how it got there. “Let go of me,” Chan says slowly, dangerously, “now.”

“You first,” Changbin whispers. His heart is a jackhammer in his chest. He feels frozen in place, unable to move. Neither of them do. Neither of them let go.

Then, Chan shifts his footing, and his knee brushes up against Changbin’s crotch.

Changbin loses his breath, and their mouths crush together, desperate and unthinking.

It’s painful. It’s rough, teeth tugging at skin, hands grappling at each other, tense and unforgiving. Chan’s mouth is softer than he thought it’d be, but the thought disappears from his mind the moment his tongue licks against his, hot and wet and wanting. He’s never kissed anyone like this, not until it’s hurt, not until he’s lightheaded and unsteady on his feet. Chan’s hands come up to clutch at his face, and Changbin can’t breathe, Changbin’s dizzy with want, Changbin wants Chan to touch him—

Chan, who’s a man. _He’s kissing Chan._

(You can’t.)

The horror creeps in, and Changbin pushes Chan back with a loud thump as his feet propel him back.

“Fuck.” Changbin shakes his head, the panic rising in his chest. “I didn’t want—I didn’t want to do that.”

Chan’s still there, back to the wall, breathing hard. “You did,” he says, and his mouth is red and shiny with spit. Changbin can still taste him on his tongue. “You wanted it. You kissed me back.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” Chan stresses, “and you keep saying you’re not, but—”

“I’m _not,”_ he seethes, the words harsh and unlike him, stumbling from his lips and unable to be taken back ever again, “I’m not like you, I’m not a…”

“Say it,” Chan demands, “just say it, Changbin, you’re not a _what?”_

“A _fag!”_ Changbin bursts out, and Chan’s face closes off entirely.

No, no, no.

Changbin reels back, and swallows a horrified, nauseated breath that punches straight through his throat.

“Alright,” Chan says, voice muted. His lips have gone thin and pale, eyebrows drawn in shock. “Alright, yeah.”

No, he didn’t mean—he didn’t mean it, he _didn’t—_

There’s a soft thump as Chan backs into the couch, almost stumbling as he whips around, away from Changbin like he’s the last person he wants to see, almost like he’s scared of him. “I’m staying over at Jisung’s tonight,” he says, voice thick. “You can pretend that never happened if you want.”

The guilt claws at Changbin from the inside. He opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Chan has his bag slung over his shoulder as he fumbles with his key, almost jamming it into the door edge with how badly his hands are shaking. “Fuck,” he whispers to himself, so quiet that Changbin can barely hear him, sucking in a breath, “fuck, I’m so fucking stupid—”

He’s still frozen in place. He can’t make himself move, or do anything.

_Please, no._

Before he leaves, Chan turns and says, “I’m sorry for you.”

The door shuts behind him. Silence falls.

He’s sorry for him. He’s fucking _sorry_ for him—Changbin, who’s fucked up in more ways than one. He’s fucked this up.

Someone’s crying. Hot, angry, silent tears. It’s him. They sting his skin and roll down his cheeks and soak through the neck of his shirt, but he barely even notices it over the sharp pain in his knuckles when he turns to swing his fist into the closest object, sending it flying.

He scrubs at his face, sucking in a breath and another, until the thin film over his vision’s dissipated.

The flat is empty. A chair lies on the floor, tilted awkwardly at an angle.

His fingers throb.

Changbin picks the chair back up, and sits down. Numbness has started to sink in, along with an ache in his chest and in his tightly-clasped palms. They’re shaking. Chan’s hands had shaken, too. Right there, where he’d stood by the door, five feet away.

He unfolds his hands. There’s blood smeared across his palm from a graze on his knuckles. The blood of Christ spilt over him, searing his skin.

“Please,” Changbin begs. “Please, tell me why.”

There’s no answer to this question.

Mercy, mercy. Lifted hands and hoarse voices and grace eclipsed by the violent turn of his heart in his chest when he thinks about the guilt weighing his palms down as he looks above for comfort and condemnation, all in one.

Everything feels muted and blurry. He’s sinking, drowning, choking on regret.

The worst part is, he doesn’t know what he regrets more: what he’s done, or what could have been.

He hides it well. He always has. When Sunday comes days later, his parents don’t realise, and neither does his sister, the way he’s keeping to himself. Quiet, unsteady. The music starts and he stands in the back aisle, eyes squeezed shut so that no one sees how red they are. He moves on autopilot, does all that’s expected of him. Greets the other members of the congregation hello when he has to, ducks his head to pray when he’s told to, attempts to take notes like he always does, like he has every single week of his life since he can remember.

The sermon that day goes into one ear and out the other. He can barely focus, fidgeting with his pen, only just catching the end of one verse when it’s put up on the screen.

_He humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death. Even death on a cross._

Changbin doesn’t know if he can live up to that. How can he?

He’s disappointed everyone. God. His family, even if they don’t know it yet. Chan—

Chan, who deserves better.

(Does Changbin deserve anything in turn?)

“Hey,” comes Hyunjin’s voice, and Changbin blinks out of his reverie, glances up to find Hyunjin standing next to him. “Was the sermon that good today or are you just falling asleep to the sound of your own brain? Not that it’s hard to. I do that every time you speak.”

“Ha, ha,” Changbin says, dumping his things into his backpack. “You’re not going home yet?”

“Soon.” Hyunjin checks his phone. “Want to go wait outside?”

Downstairs, they sit side-by-side on the steps outside the church building, waiting for their rides to show up.

“You’ve been quiet today.” Hyunjin peers at him, head tilted. “You’ve been quiet all month, actually.”

“It’s called being a STEM student and actually having shit to do.”

“No,” Hyunjin says, too perceptive. “It’s not.”

Changbin looks up at him, feeling wrung out. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m a bad friend, I know. That’s all.”

When he doesn’t get a response, Changbin turns to look at Hyunjin, who’s pensive. “We’re close, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” Changbin says, a bit taken aback. “Yeah, dude—you’re my closest friend.”

“And you’ve known me forever, right?”

Since they were kids, living next door to each other. They’d chased each other around their yards and went to vacation bible school together every year and slept over at each other’s places more times than Changbin can remember. There’s not a single point in time where Changbin doesn’t remember knowing Hyunjin, or having him there.

“And,” Hyunjin continues, “I’ve always just been me, haven’t I? I’ve always just been Hyunjin?”

“Of course,” Changbin says, brow furrowed. “Of course you have.”

“Then nothing changes,” Hyunjin murmurs slowly, “if I tell you that I had a boyfriend two years ago?”

His chest caves in, filling with confusion. Panic. “No. You didn’t.”

“I did. We dated for five months. But he didn’t like that I went to church, so I dumped him.”

“You like girls,” Changbin points out. There’s no way. There’s absolutely no way Hyunjin’s saying what he’s saying right now. “You’re straight, you’ve dated girls before, girls that we both know, you’ve never said— _you never told me—”_

“I like girls.” Hyunjin shrugs. His hair curls over his ear as he tilts his head. “But I like boys, too.” His voice gets more urgent when he says, “And absolutely nothing changes knowing this, does it?”

Changbin’s about to protest otherwise, when the thought finally catches properly.

Hyunjin has always been the same, even if Changbin never knew.

“But,” Changbin mutters, desperate to make sense of it all, “how? When you know it’s wrong? When everyone says we—that you can’t?”

“You don’t know that it’s wrong.”

“They all say so! It says so, in—”

“Who said? Listen,” Hyunjin says firmly, “this is me. This is who I am. I’ve known for my entire life, and none of it is up for debate. No one’s going to tell me to change. It’s between me and God. Some stuffy pastor who doesn’t know me isn’t gonna tell me otherwise.”

Changbin snorts, but falls silent. “You really think so?” he eventually manages, throat feeling raw. “That it’s just between you and… that it’s fine, just like that?”

“Might not be the way everyone thinks,” Hyunjin says quietly, “but it’s enough for me.”

“Okay,” Changbin says. He still needs to think about this. “Okay. My sister’s here.”

“Text me when you’re home,” Hyunjin says, thumping him on the back. “And—talk to Chan?”

Changbin startles. “How’d you—”

“You’re not the only one who’s looked like shit lately.” Hyunjin winces. “Trust me. Just talk to him. Or something. Anything.”

“I’ll try,” Changbin replies, hoisting his bag over his shoulder. “See you.”

“Bye.”

The ride home’s silent, save for the sound of his sister’s Melon playlist playing. She hums along to Bethel and sneaks a few glances over at him every now and then. “You doing okay, kid?”

Changbin grunts, not taking his eyes off the window.

“Putting those big boy words to good use, huh,” she says, taking a corner. “You know I’m here if you ever wanna talk about anything.”

“I know,” Changbin says.

Not now. Maybe not ever. But, what Hyunjin had said—

Maybe one day.

The tide begins to shift.

More days come and go, blending into each other. Changbin’s still filled to the brim and bursting with questions, but above all, he doesn’t want to leave things between him and Chan like this. Not when they’d had something good before.

Not when Changbin’s still trying to work out how he feels.

The words don’t come easy. Each time he thinks about just knocking on Chan’s door and apologising, the words get stuck in his throat, unfinished and undone and uncooperative. He’s always been too strong-willed, too stubborn to apologise for things.

There’s one way, though.

It takes a week, but he gets it done. Works when Chan’s not at home, when Chan doesn’t know he’s going into the studio room. Works until weird hours of the night in his room, headphones over his ears and mouse clicking over and over and over. It’s the only thing he knows how to do. It’s the only way he knows how to say the things he wants to say.

He leaves it on the desk in the studio for Chan to find in the morning.

It’s not enough, but it’s a start.

_come to the studio?_

_ok_

Trepidation rests in the hollow of his throat when he raises his fist to knock on the door. He opens it, and steps in, seeing Chan seated at the desk that they’ve spent countless nights writing at, listening to music at, goofing off at. Chan doesn’t look up, but he’s holding the thumb drive in his hands, turning it over in his fingers again and again, running the pad of his thumb over his name written messily in black marker over the front of it.

Changbin shuts the door behind him, and sits in the empty chair beside Chan.

Neither of them say a word, until Chan finally goes, “It’s a good song.”

“Thanks.” Changbin exhales. “It’s… you can do what you want with it. It’s yours.”

Chan looks up at him, something unreadable in his gaze. “All of it?”

The music, good enough for a song of his own. The lyrics, a confession and an apology and a request all in one. He’ll give it all up to him if it’ll start to make things better.

“Yeah,” Changbin says. The words get stuck in his throat again. He hopes Chan understands what he’s trying to say. What he’s trying to do. “All of it.”

Chan clutches the thumbdrive close. “I was so angry,” he says quietly, like he’s the one ashamed of it all. He shouldn’t be, not in the slightest. “I couldn’t stop thinking about what you’d said.”

“I never should’ve said it.” Changbin curls his fingers into his knees, unable to face Chan as he speaks. “I didn’t understand what was going on. It’s still so… new. All of this. You.”

Chan laughs a little. “Well. It’s the first time I’ve ever turned a straight boy gay,” he says, but it’s in jest. Changbin shakes his head, smiling despite himself. Even when they’re hashing something like this out, he’s still a dork. “Pretty new for me too.”

“I don’t think…” Changbin’s breath feels like it’s being punched out of his chest. “I don’t think I’m straight.”

“I know,” Chan says, sobering up. “I know it’s new. I know you’re struggling with figuring this out. And I get it. I’ve been there. It took a while for me too, but I got there in the end. But you’re not alone, I promise.”

“I think it’s gonna take more than a while for me.” Weeks, months, years. “All my friends, they’re from church. My family—I could never tell them. Never. I can’t even figure out what I want to do with the rest of my fucking life.”

“It’s still early days.” Chan pushes his swivel chair closer with his feet, bumps Changbin’s knees with his own. “You’ve got Hyunjin, you’ve got Jisung. You’ve got me. There’s a pretty long road ahead, I know. But you’re still walking. You’re not gonna stop. Not for anyone. I know you enough now to know that’s true.”

“You calling me stubborn?”

“Yes,” Chan says immediately, and Changbin snorts. “And I’m saying that it’ll be okay.” Chan falls silent for a moment, before adding, “I don’t usually date boys in the closet,” and he puts his hand over Changbin’s knee, warm and easy, “but I really like you.”

Changbin meets his eyes. “Even after what I said?”

“Maybe I realised you were saying it more to yourself than me, really.” Chan smiles, giving Changbin a half-hearted shrug. “People make mistakes. People learn. People change, people grow. I’m not going to hate you for slipping up once while you were trying to figure yourself out.”

“You’re not a real person,” Changbin says, and Chan laughs. “Seriously. You should be kicking me out of the flat or something. Making me grovel.”

“I wanted to,” Chan says, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Oh man, did I want to. My friends all threatened to do it for me if I didn’t do it myself first.”

Concern nips at the edges of Changbin’s consciousness. “I…” he starts, feeling his stomach drop to the floor. “I mean, if it’s better that way…”

“But,” Chan continues, smiling, “I’m not gonna. Just—as long as you promise to make up for it.”

“I’ll keep making up for it,” Changbin says soberly, “as long as you’ll let me.”

It’s not a second chance he deserves, but it’s one he hopes he gets anyway.

Chan holds his hand out, and Changbin takes it.

Time passes. Not much of it, but it does pass. It ebbs and flows into the next season. Spring melts away and summer comes in, bright and new and washing away the uncertainty of the months before.

Life goes on, and Changbin keeps his promise.

Things are more or less back to normal. They’re spending time together again, whether it’s studying or just watching a movie or eating together. Changbin hadn’t realised how much he’s missed their friendship until he’d almost had it all ripped away by his own doing.

Except.

They’re not quite just friends anymore, are they?

There’s an edge of mischief to all their interactions, now. The banter is the same, but there are moments where one of them will just say something that just tiptoes past the border of being just friends. Moments where Chan will shuffle up close to him, even more casual than he’d been before they talked things out. Moments where Chan catches Changbin staring at him, moments where Changbin doesn’t look away even when he knows he’s been caught.

Chan’s flirting with him. And Changbin keeps flirting back.

He doesn’t know if it’s a good or bad idea. All he knows is that he likes the way Chan’s eyes linger on him, the way Chan makes him feel when he puts his chin on his shoulder, the way Changbin’s heart stutters to a pause when Chan’s eyes curve and all his teeth show when Changbin makes a dumb quip or a silly joke.

And sometimes, Changbin just wants more.

He’s still trying to deal with all of this, still trying to come to terms with it, still trying to acknowledge the fact that he’s not changed despite only just newly discovering this massively fundamental part of himself—but sometimes it’s all he can think about.

Kissing Chan. Touching Chan. Doing things with him that he’d never let himself consider doing before. He still doesn’t know if it’ll be good, even. If it’s all just a mistake, if he actually just thinks he’ll be into it and actually isn’t.

Maybe it’s time he finds out.

They’re on Changbin’s bed, just watching a movie on Chan’s laptop. Chan’s snuggled up close to him, head almost leaning on Changbin’s shoulder. The proximity helps. Changbin feels a lot less like he’s going to jump out of his own skin with Chan there to ground him, these days.

And it’s nice. Chan’s warm.

“Sleepy?” Chan’s voice comes, and Changbin shakes his head.

“Just… thinking,” he says.

“About what?”

“You,” Changbin answers before he can think about it. “Wait. Fuck. Um.”

“Aw,” Chan says. He presses his cheek to Changbin’s shoulder and looks up at him, eyes big and bright and puppyish. “Guess you do like me after all.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Changbin says, no heat behind the words, and Chan snickers. “I meant. Whatever this is we’re doing.”

“Watching a movie?” Chan teases.

“You know what I mean.”

Chan sits up, and swings his legs off the bed to set his laptop down on the floor gently. “I know what you mean,” he says, “and it’s… it’s okay, right?”

Changbin licks his lips absently, sitting up straighter too. “Yeah,” he says, “but I still, um, don’t really know how I feel. About guys. I guess I sort of know I like them,” _I know I like you,_ “but I don’t really—know? For sure? If I want to do anything with them?”

“You probably won’t know until you try.”

Their eyes meet.

“I could…” Chan says slowly, “help you out. If you want.”

“Yeah?” Changbin says, not moving an inch. “You’d… you want to?”

“Yeah. Besides,” Chan says. “You’ve already kissed me once.”

Changbin groans. He hates remembering that night. “That doesn’t count. It’s not allowed to. I want a redo.”

Chan giggles, and shifts closer on the bed, fingers brushing against Changbin’s. “I can get with that,” he says, leaning in to nuzzle at Changbin’s cheek. Changbin shivers, and turns his head slightly, lets Chan draw the tip of his nose along Changbin’s own, along his cheekbone. Lets Chan close the gap between them, drawing him in.

He closes his eyes.

Changbin’s kissed girls before but this—this just feels different. The angle’s different; Changbin doesn’t have to lean down. Chan’s mouth is soft but he’s more aggressive, he’s the one who takes control of the kiss, one hand on the back of Changbin’s neck as he tilts his head and presses close. Sweetly, firmly. Chan sucks at his lower lip and he shivers, mouth falling open for Chan to lick into. It gets heated quick, the kiss deepening and deepening until all Changbin feels is the heat pricking under his skin, the desire to touch Chan, the need for Chan to touch him.

They break apart, and Changbin breathes, “Will you—can you—”

“Yeah,” Chan mumbles, leaning in for another kiss as his hands land on Changbin’s thighs, rubbing up and down. “Yeah, I wanna—you’re sure?”

“Yes.” The fear spikes, but the thrill of doing something taboo for the first time overwhelms it, kicks it right out of his head once Chan slides his hand down Changbin’s sweatpants.

Chan wraps a hand around his cock, and everything snaps right into place for him.

His palm is warm, a bit too dry, but Changbin doesn’t mind, delirious with the thought that Chan is actually touching him after weeks of thinking about it (after weeks of telling himself to not think about it and failing). Chan kisses him and asks, “Okay?”

“More than okay,” Changbin admits, and Chan smiles against his cheek.

And then, Chan says, “Can I suck you off?”

Changbin makes the most embarrassing noise possible, hips jerking up in Chan’s grip. _Holy shit._ Chan wants to put his mouth on him. “Fuck. Please.”

“Really?” Chan looks thrilled, sliding off the bed to get on his knees. His hands are still on Changbin’s legs. His hands, moving up to tug Changbin’s sweatpants down. Changbin doesn’t remember how to breathe anymore. “I’ve… sort of been thinking about this for months,” he says, sounding a bit shy, and Changbin has to look away, feeling his entire face flush with heat. He can’t believe this. He can’t believe _him._

And then, there they are. Changbin, half-hard. Chan, his fingernails lightly scraping down Changbin’s abs as he leans down and gives Changbin a little kiss, and then a lick, and Changbin loses his mind when Chan opens up his plush, wet mouth to envelop the head of his cock. His tongue presses up against his slit as he works his mouth over him, sucking and licking at him like it’s all he can think about.

Chan looks up at him through his lashes, slides his mouth down almost to where his hand is fisted around the base of Changbin’s cock, and makes a sound like he’s the one getting off.

It’s too much, it’s too good. Changbin’s fingers tighten in Chan’s hair as he comes, breathless and lightheaded and knowing nothing other than the feeling of Chan’s lips around him.

After, Chan kisses him, asks if it’d been good, asks if he liked it. He doesn’t even ask Changbin if he can do the same for him even though Changbin can feel how aroused he is through the thin fabric of his shorts.

Changbin kisses him back, tastes himself on Chan’s tongue, and thinks, he does.

He likes it.

(He likes Chan.)

He’d been thirteen.

There’d been a boy at his school. He had a nice smile and pretty fingers and he gave Changbin some of his lunch once when Changbin left his wallet at home. They weren’t in the same class, but they were in the same sports house and trained for discus throw together on Thursdays after the last bell rang.

That boy had gotten caught kissing some other boy on the school compound after hours. Changbin only heard about it the next week, when the boy stopped showing up for class, when some other kids had talked about the way he’d apparently cried his eyes when his parents found out, begging for them to look at him.

“Can you imagine?” his father had said, driving him back from school later that day. “How did his parents raise him?”

“Dunno,” Changbin had said, feeling ill. He hadn’t known why. He just remembers thinking about how he’d never see that boy smile again. “He was nice though, dad.”

His father had just made a disgruntled sound. “As long as you don’t turn out like that.”

Changbin had sunk further back into his seat, wordless.

(The next time he met a boy with a nice smile, he’d turned away. And the next. And the next.

He’d turned and prayed them all away.)

Chan’s back is outlined against the dim light of the single bulb in their kitchen. The water’s running, the sound of cutlery clattering against a plate.

He pads up to Chan, setting his mug on the counter behind him with a soft clink, and steels himself. “Hey,” he says quietly, and Chan turns to look at him as he reaches over to put a hand over his arm. “I was thinking.”

“Thinking’s important,” Chan says lightly. He sets the plate back in the rack, and turns the tap off. “What about?”

Changbin watches his own thumb run over a vein in Chan’s wrist. “Do you think we could do that again? Not the—what we did. But—something else.” He doesn’t know why he’s being so coy about it. Maybe it’s the way Chan makes him feel when he leans in, lips curving into a smile, all broad shoulders and big hands. “If you want.”

“Well,” Chan says, “if you’re up to it. You could make it up to me.”

Chan’s hands are still wet when Changbin walks them back to Chan’s bedroom, slow and with intent.

It’s different this time. Changbin strips down to his boxers, lies back in the slightly scratchy sheets, and watches Chan step out of his towel, having taken a moment to wash up beforehand. He feels like his heart’s in his throat when Chan moves onto the bed, hands sliding up Changbin’s calves as he knee-walks up close. His cock is soft, nestled in dark curls. Everything about him is defined and angular. Changbin’s never gotten to look at another man like this before. Arousal simmers under his skin, low and building.

Chan sits on Changbin’s hips and presses the bottle of lube into his palm, trusting and gentle. “Have you… ever?”

“No,” Changbin says. His mouth’s dry. “Just—one girl, maybe, but it wasn’t. It didn’t work out so well.” She’d let him finger her in the back of a dark closet at a party that Changbin barely remembers. It’d been fumbling kisses, a weird, sick feeling in his gut, and fifteen minutes of nothing until he’d apologised and let her tug her panties back up and leave, embarrassed and red-faced.

Chan laughs, but it’s not mocking in any way. Just sympathetic. “Yeah,” he says, “been there, done that.”

The tension drains from Changbin’s shoulders slightly. “Okay,” he says, “yeah, alright, glad it’s not just me who’s had awful sexual encounters before.”

“Dude. Remind me to tell you all about it next time.” Chan grins, and leans down to press their lips together. Changbin’s eyes fall shut and he chases it, still unused to the feeling. “But not now,” Chan murmurs, pulling back a little. “Now’s for us.”

The bottle suddenly feels heavier. _Us,_ he thinks. “Talk me through it,” Changbin says, hesitance trapped within his words. “Do I—can I touch you? Now?”

“Yeah.” Chan guides Changbin’s hand to his cock, lets him wrap his fingers around him. He’s hot to the touch, and Changbin feels the weight of him in his palm. “Below, too.”

Changbin lets his hand trail further down, and Chan braces his palms on the bed, pushing up onto his knees. It’s strange, at first, the way his curiosity overlaps with the unavoidable, abject fear of what he’s doing, cupping another man’s balls, touching his dick. The desire to see what makes Chan tick wins over, though, and he tugs Chan a bit closer by the hip, rubs along his perineum the way Changbin likes when he’s touching himself. Above him, Chan makes a noise, and Changbin’s hand stutters to a stop.

Chan just made that sound because of him.

“Keep going,” Chan says, ducking his head to kiss Changbin reassuringly. “It’s nice. You’re doing good.”

He’s doing good. Alright. Changbin takes a deep breath, and brushes his fingers over Chan’s rim, just feeling along the muscle there. He can feel him moving, clenching, and Changbin’s breath is permanently caught in his chest. It’s all so intensely new.

Lube gets all over the sheets when he accidentally drops the bottle before closing the cap, but it’s fine. His fingers are slick as he prods at Chan’s hole, teasing at his rim. Chan makes encouraging noises, a steadily growing flush across his cheekbones. “One finger,” he whispers, “slow. Watch my face.”

Changbin does as he says, and the feeling of Chan around his finger is different from before, when he’d tried with that girl, but similar enough that it’s not a completely alien feeling. His gaze flits to Chan’s face like Chan had told him to, and as he presses in, Chan’s eyebrows knit together, his nose scrunching up slightly. “Is this okay?”

“Go deeper,” and Changbin does, “it’s been a while since the last time I did this,” and when Changbin rubs the pad of his finger inside Chan, still unsure what he’s searching for, Chan’s eyes squeeze shut, “yeah—right there, _hah_ —curl your finger in. Yeah. Like that. Again, keep going.”

He watches, fascinated and thrilled, as Chan’s cock thickens and fills between his thighs, rising until the head of it smacks up against his belly. His other hand’s on Chan before he can even think about it, fingers trailing over the tip, rubbing along the slit, coming away sticky. Above him, Chan sucks in an audible, shaky breath as he looks up at the ceiling, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. There’s a tremble in his arms and knees as he minutely grinds his hips down into Changbin’s hand. “More,” he says, sounding remarkably steady despite the way his skin is flushed from his neck down, “gimme one more.”

Two fingers. Changbin can’t stop staring at the way Chan’s hole sucks them in, obsessed with the way they disappear into him. Chan tightens around him, murmurs, “Same thing as before. Just—rub slowly,” and his breath hitches when Changbin does just that, fingers crooking inside him, not thrusting, just circling the spot that Changbin guesses should be the right one by the way Chan shuts his eyes and bites his lip. “Mm. Yeah. That’s good, you’re doing really good.”

“It feels good?”

“Yeah,” Chan confirms dazedly, shoulders rolling back as he curls his fingers into the sheets, back arching. He’s beautiful. Changbin never wants to look away. Changbin feels like he’s on the brink of losing himself to the soft sounds coming from Chan’s throat. He’s doing that. He’s making Chan feel good. He feels like he’s burning up with amazement and excitement and shock all in one. _He’s making Chan feel good._ “Feels real good. You’re so good, Changbin.”

Changbin’s own voice is unsteady when he asks, “What else? What else can I do?”

“Touch me again,” Chan says, and Changbin wraps his fingers around Chan’s cock, tries to remember the way he likes it, tries to remember what had made Chan’s eyes flutter just minutes ago. He strokes him slow, in the same rhythm as his fingers inside Chan, thumbs over the head of his cock and massages under it until Chan’s rocking his hips into his grip, the lines of his body tense as he breathes out harder, louder. “Close. I’m close.”

Changbin doesn’t stop touching him. “I wanna see it,” he whispers urgently, eyes fixed on the way Chan’s face is scrunched up, mouth slack with pleasure. “Wanna see you come, please, Chan, I wanna see you—”

There’s no warning. Chan’s spilling hotly over his knuckles before he can finish his sentence, his cock throbbing and twitching in his grip. Changbin doesn’t let go, can’t let go, can’t do anything except watch. His fingers feel like they’re being squeezed between a vice, the tight heat of Chan’s hole closing in around them.

By the time he’s able to slip his fingers free of Chan, he realises just how drenched in sweat he is. He can taste salt on his own tongue as he licks at his lips and palms at his own dick through his underwear, not caring that Chan’s come is still all over his hand. He feels dizzy with need, dizzy with the desire to get off too, mind reeling with the thought of Chan’s mouth, Chan’s hole, Chan coming, _Chan._

Chan moves closer, dipping down to ask for a kiss. His hand slides under the hem of Changbin’s boxers just as their lips touch, and Changbin’s the one groaning into Chan’s mouth this time. Chan sucks on his tongue and bites at his jaw and jerks him off in quick strokes, and Changbin comes with a cry, hips canting up, hands curling into Chan’s hair to pull him closer.

“Chan,” he says, and Chan kisses him again, “Chan,” until their mouths are sore, “Chan, you’re so—fuck, _Chan,”_ until Chan’s pulling back, cheeks flushed harder than Changbin’s ever seen him, lips swollen to the point of obscenity.

“Yeah,” Chan says, and Changbin clutches at him, breathes in the sweat and come and adrenaline, and lets Chan stroke at his hair, gentle without needing to be asked, reassuring like he just knows. “Yeah, Changbin.”

_Thank you._

Finals are approaching, and Changbin starts to hunker down, to get serious with revising. He just needs to get through this month of hell, and then it’ll be alright. Then, it’ll just be three more years of this, and then he’s free. He’ll get to do what he wants to do. Be who he wants to be.

They’re studying together at home, Changbin draped over the couch with his notes in his lap and Chan with his laptop set up at the dining table, when Chan goes, “I was thinking of having some friends over this week.”

“Yeah?” Changbin flips through his charts absently. “Go for it, I’m fine.”

“It’s just that,” Chan starts, and Changbin glances up, hearing the note of uncertainty in his voice, “they’re mostly people like me. And I know you’re still figuring stuff out, but they could help, I think. If you wanted to ask questions. Or, if you just wanted other people to talk to about this.”

Changbin feels frozen in place. Other people knowing about him? About what they’ve been doing?

“You don’t have to agree,” Chan says, “but they won’t tell anyone. They’ve all been there. We’ve all been there. They get what it’s like.”

What it’s like. The kiss of a fist, blood trickling down someone’s temple. The mean laughter of children. A boy, crying and crying and crying. Blazing sidewalks and guilt that turns you inside out. Fear and anger and disgust and not knowing who you are anymore. Not knowing if you ever really knew who you were in the first place.

That’s what it’s like.

“They’ll understand,” Chan says.

Changbin takes a deep breath. “Yeah,” he says. He wants to be brave. He doesn’t know if he can be, but he wants to. “Have them over. I can get snacks or whatever.”

He watches Chan’s expression soften, before he’s rising from his seat to come over to where Changbin is. He says nothing, but leans down to press a kiss to Changbin’s forehead, stroking his hair.

Aching, wanting. His heart seizes with something that almost feels like more than need. It feels like gratitude. It feels like affection.

Chan’s friends are different.

Not in a bad way. They’re just not what Changbin had expected when Chan had said they were like him. He only realises how broad the spectrum of ‘like’ is when Chan introduces him to Yeji and her girlfriend Ryujin, gets a bit sheepish when Changbin recognises Minho as Chan’s hookup from the night of the party way back when, and lets Felix patiently explain why he’s wearing a dress even though he’s a guy. The last one throws him off for just a moment, but Felix is ridiculously sweet, and doesn’t mind that Changbin stumbles over the concept as he tries to wrap his head around it properly.

He’s trying his best. He is. But Chan was right. They understand.

“Jeongin can’t make it tonight, by the way,” Minho mentions, scrolling through his phone as he plucks chips out of a bowl, “stressing over assignments. You know how they get.”

Jisung chooses that moment to appear, practically kicking the door down as he attempts to not fall over, carrying a massive bag of ice in his scrawny arms. “Alright, losers! Let’s get this party started!”

“Jisung’s straight, by the way,” Seungmin says, for Changbin’s benefit, “but we still can’t get rid of him.”

“I’m heteroflexible,” Jisung says nonchalantly. “It’s a thing. I Googled it.”

“You’re in denial.”

“I just like kissing people! So what!”

Changbin watches the exchange, feeling just a little in over his head. “Hey,” Chan says, coming up beside him. “Sorry, they’re just always like this.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I like them.” Changbin lets Chan slip an arm around his waist, not entirely uncaring that they’re in view of everyone, but feeling enough at ease to let him anyway. It’s nice. It feels safe to have Chan by his side like this. “They’re good people.”

Chan hums, sounding pleased, and turns to press a quick kiss to Changbin’s cheek.

It makes him feel warm.

And then Hyunjin shows up, blinking as he takes in the sight of Changbin standing in the midst of the ragtag group of kids. Changbin, who’s pressed up along Chan in a way that suggests that they’re far more than just friends.

(Changbin’s still not entirely sure what they are right now. But they’ll figure it out.)

“Hey,” Changbin says simply. “So. I took your advice.”

The corner of Hyunjin’s mouth tips up, and he’s walking straight over to tug Changbin into a hug. Hyunjin clutches at him, arms wrapped tightly around him, and Changbin buries his face in Hyunjin’s shoulder, hiding a smile. Everything’s different, but this is still the same. Him and Hyunjin against the world.

“They’re so cute,” he hears Yeji comment, and Chan agrees, sounding like he’s smiling.

“Finally,” Hyunjin says, pitching his voice lower even though Changbin’s pretty sure that everyone else can hear them speaking, “I’m seriously just… so glad you’re figuring things out. Honest.” Then, he adds, “I’ve sort of always had my suspicions about you, anyway. My gaydar’s pretty good, you know.”

“No, it’s not,” Felix calls, “you thought Jisung was gay for an entire three months until you saw him making out with that girl from his Comms class.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Hyunjin calls back breezily, and Changbin laughs when Felix flips him off and says something that’s probably incredibly insulting in English that makes Chan look at him like a disapproving parent.

It feels normal. This, all of this. It feels like having any other group of friends over—and maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s what he’s been missing. Maybe this is what will make the difference between the Changbin from before and the Changbin from now.

Having people around who get it. People like them.

People like him.

A hurricane steamrolls through the city, keeping them stuck home for a good few days. They’d made plans, were supposed to go over to someone’s place for board games and drinks, but the moment Chan had stepped out the door, he’d gotten a face full of rain and slammed the door shut, dripping water all over the rug.

Changbin lets Chan change out of his sopping wet clothes, and rummages through their fridge. “We’ve got like,” he calls, “three bottles of soju left.”

“Yeah?”

“But they’re all grapefruit.”

“Oh.” Chan sticks his head out his door. “That’s cool. Wanna watch Netflix?”

They load up some old show that Changbin only half pays attention to, distracted by the tight shirt that Chan had changed into. It stretches over his chest and biceps and leaves Changbin staring at him more than the screen.

He’s obvious. He knows he is, especially when he’s two bottles of alcohol in and Chan’s caught him looking at least twice now, but he doesn’t have it in him to care.

And then, Chan slings a leg over his lap and says, “You should pay attention.”

Changbin breathes out. Puts a hand on Chan’s chest, runs it down his front, slow. “I _am_ paying attention,” he murmurs, hand coming to rest on his hip. “I’m not looking anywhere else.”

“Yeah?” Chan ducks his head, nips under Changbin’s ear. He’s tipsy, cheekbones stained pink, a pretty smile stretched across his lips. Changbin wants to set his fingers into the corners of his mouth and kiss him until neither of them can remember their names.

So he does.

They make out for what seems like hours, Chan curled up in his lap, Changbin tugging him in impossibly close, hands and mouths all over each other. Hips grinding together lazily, Chan making soft, sweet noises against him when Changbin slides his palms down his back and down to his ass, squeezing lightly.

It’s just as good as the first time, the second time, all the other times since then. Chan sighs, paws at the hem of Changbin’s shirt, and whispers, “Fuck me.”

Arousal jolts through his system, sobering him up faster than he can speak. “Shit, Chan,” Changbin says helplessly, and he kisses him, every nerve in his body shaking with the thought of it. “Really?”

“If,” Chan says, “if you want to—it’s okay if you want to wait—”

There’s a yelp and a laugh as Changbin lifts Chan bodily from the couch. He’s not exactly light, but Changbin has never wanted to be on a bed more in his life, and he’s not about to waste a single moment getting there. Chan wraps his legs around Changbin’s waist and his arms around Changbin’s shoulders and says, dazed, “Hot.”

They topple onto Chan’s bed, fumbling to get their clothes off. Chan’s already naked by the time Changbin gets his underwear off, lube and condom in hand. He crawls over Chan, lets their mouths press together again, and feels something strange and terrified rise in his throat by the time he’s worked Chan up properly into telling him, “Now.”

He’s going to do this. They’re going to do this.

Changbin feels his heart catch when he finally pushes into Chan, so slick and hot and tight that he has to pause for a long, long moment just to stop himself from coming too soon. He’s never felt like this before. It’s exhilarating, it’s everything. Changbin feels like he’s on fire, a blaze that won’t go out. Unstoppably, undeniably good.

“Changbin,” Chan sighs, mouthing at his collarbones, his neck, his jaw. Anywhere he can reach as Changbin moves, slow thrusts of his hips that make his eyes flutter and his entire body tense up. Every line, every angle. Every inch of skin. Changbin wants to feel it all.

When he comes, his hands tighten on the backs of Chan’s knees, and Chan’s fingernails bite into his shoulders so hard he thinks he’ll bleed. “Chan,” he whispers, heart beating out of his chest, consumed by the desire to see Chan come too as he jerks him off, “Chan, Chan, please.”

Chan seizes up around him, clutches him close, and says his name like a prayer.

Maybe he was wrong. This can’t be a bad thing, Chan can’t be a bad thing. Not when it feels like this.

Like worship.

Changbin tugs the sheets up, and turns in Chan’s hold.

He’s never stayed the night in someone else’s bed like this before. Especially not unclothed, especially not with another man. But it feels absolutely natural to lie there and let Chan curl an arm around his waist, the warmth of his bare chest pressed to his back.

Changbin breathes in the scent of Chan’s pillow, and wonders if he should pray.

The guilt hasn’t left. The questions aren’t completely answered. There’s still so much more he doesn’t know, so much he needs to understand.

He doesn’t know if it’s right to come to God with this even after all he’s done.

But Chan tucks in close, lips brushing against the back of his neck as he whispers, unjudging and gentle, “Maybe... God can help you find some peace. With who you are. I think it’d be okay if you asked Him.”

Changbin’s breath catches.

Just ask, huh.

_What’s the answer? Does anyone know? Changbin, do you want to try answering this one? It can be a short answer too, that’s fine._

It’s life, it’s death. The very first to the last, uncompromising breath. Hands outstretched to receive undeserved grace—it’s being in this very place, and knowing that it’s alright to be vulnerable, to be lost. To just not know. To try reconciling what should be and what is, and sometimes just not being able to.

It’s figuring out that sometimes there isn’t an answer.

And it’s okay.

(You’re still you.)

Changbin lets his eyes fall shut, and finally understands.

**Author's Note:**

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